


Terran Moon Rising

by Froggyflan



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Consensual Mind Meld, Nyota Uhura is a Good Friend, Psychological Trauma, Spock-centric, This is very emotional, Vulnerable Spock, post-STID, so is Bones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 04:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggyflan/pseuds/Froggyflan
Summary: He waits 14 days for Jim to wake up.





	Terran Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, it's 2019 and I'm really into Star Trek for no discernable reason.
> 
> Here is some extremely self-indulgent fluff.

Patience, which had always come to him so easily, is vanishing.

The vivid anger lashed about in his blood as if it were a virus intent on destroying him. He could feel the exact catecholamines being transmitted through him: epinephrine, norepinephrine, cortisol. Each hormone performing the function it had been created for. When his fists had made contact with Khan’s nose, his jaw, with all the force and energy he could muster, he had felt unstoppable. Currently, with those same compounds still affecting his system, he is afraid. Afraid and lost.

The gurney has a loose wheel that emits a rattling sound as it moves down the hallway. McCoy and the nurses are speaking quickly, giving commands and collecting information, but at that moment he can only hear the rattle, hear his footsteps, hear his breathing as if his lungs were in his very mouth. His legs are weak, but they continue forward with the assistance of adrenaline. He cannot stop now.

All he can see, through the mix of hormones and fear, is Jim.

His face is flushed red as if he had fallen asleep in the sun. He had seen him in this condition previously. They had spent the day at Baker Beach and despite reminding him to reapply sunscreen every two hours, Jim had assured him that he had spent plenty of summers in Iowa and would not require any. That night, with his skin burnt and slick with salve, Jim had asked him if he could ever love a lobster. He had told him he could only love Jim. Now he’s encased in a cryo tube surrounded by cold metal stabilizers. He is not the same Jim who had smiled as bright as the stars. That man is gone. He is looking at a corpse.

No, he tells himself. The emotions start to break from their cage and ooze into him. That is incorrect.

He stays approximately one point one meters from the gurney, turning tight corners and dodging medical staff to remain with it. But the more he watches Jim’s face barely seen underneath a layer of thick reinforced glass, he starts to slow. One point five meters. The tricorders do not show his vitals. There are no readings. One point eight meters. There is no heartbeat, no breath, no activity. Two point three meters.

No, he tells himself. He nearly falters to regain his pace, and were he not so engaged, he would have been embarrassed by his misstep. If there were not a probability, they would not be making an attempt. Point nine meters.

The gurney is rushed into a room he cannot enter, with doors that swing open to swallow Jim and leave him behind. McCoy presses a firm hand to the center of his chest, but he moves forward to try and maintain his proximity to Jim. He nearly tramples over the doctor. “Spock, I know you wanna be in there, but we gotta do this right. We need to do this perfectly.”

He understands what perfect entails: sterile equipment, practiced hands, quiet space. There is no room for him there. The grim frown on McCoy’s face does little to placate him. Jim is out of his sights and the world is dim. The dread and uncertainty well up to consume him and he only opens his mouth to shut it again. He can not formulate ideas, translate words into speech, and he only feels what he felt the same moment they touched through the glass when he watched the light fade from his eyes.

“Breathe, Spock.”

He follows the command even if he had not willed it. There is the ever-present desire to feel embarrassed at his lack of control. McCoy steps back to give him his space. “I can’t promise anything. I’ve never seen anything like this, so it might not even work. But you can bet your ass I’m gonna try. I just need time.”

“Yes,” is the first word that finally bursts out of him and it rings with a pathetic warble. “Of course, doctor.”

“You really laid it on him, didn’t you?” The doctor suddenly grips his hands to inspect them. “I’d say I’m glad, but you’re gonna need stitches, so maybe tone it back next time.”

He looks down. Now that they are laid before him, he sees the damage he has incurred. The index and middle knuckles are split open wide enough for him to see the muscle and sinew beneath. They are deep wounds, truly not to be underestimated, and yet he had not felt it before and did not feel it now. The blood pools into the recesses between his fingers, staining his cuffs emerald.

“Get patched up. I’ll meet you when I have news.”

He does as he is told once again. McCoy escorts him to a nurse and is quick to return to the task at hand, gone after one last fierce glance. He only barely realizes that it is a meaningful look, one meant to convey determination and avidity; The doctor will make this right. He desires that to be true. Intensely.

The nurse is kind in not attempting to stimulate conversation. She quietly attends to him. The sutures do not register. There is no sensation, even as the needle pierces him repeatedly. It is as if his nerves have refused to respond. He can hear the apprehension in her increased respiratory rate, sees it in the droplets of perspiration excreting from her pores. The gentle tug does little to distract him from his troubled mind, but he tries. He watches the process. The thread is a collagen blend. It is improbable that it will assimilate with his particular biology. His skin is by no means delicate, but he is not prone to bodily harm and therefore more probable to scar. If his theory is correct, then he will have these marks for the remainder of his life and every moment he sees them will be a moment he remembers this feeling.

There are bandages on his hands before he notices. The nurse asks him to wait in the reception area. He does.

The staff in this area are not frenzied or distressed, unlike the emergency team from before. He feels stifled by the sudden ease, of the gentle flipping of papers and clicking of clean shoes on freshly waxed floors. They are not yelling and running and being frightened when they should be. There is a Starfleet captain fighting for his life and they act as if that were not the case. He sits in that small plastic chair and he feels as if he is the only sane individual. But he is not. He is overreacting. Pain bellows out of his core at an alarming rate. Emotions scrape at his insides as if they are a beast he refuses to free. The clock tells him it has only been a few minutes. He closes his eyes to ignore this.

More time passes. He hears frantic footsteps from familiar feet. Nyota is here. She touches his shoulder with the utmost gentleness and caution. He is grateful for this. She does not try to embrace him though he knows it to be her desire. He looks up to confirm it in her eyes. She only sits beside him in silence, a hand pressed to his knee. He cannot finds words for her.

“Shh,” she hushes him as if he were a child, but he does not take offense. Her hand moves beneath his elbow, curling up and over. “It’s okay.”

She does not console him further. She knows better than most that it is unnecessary. He has learned well enough by now that she says what she means. She, though not Vulcan, seems to have a skill for understanding without speaking. He finds it an odd skill for an accomplished linguist, but she may simply be versed in the language of sentiment. He is not so proficient.

He cannot recall how long they waited alone in a room full of people. She was a constant presence beside him; a reminder to remain calm. He found the peace of mind to meditate and not dwell on his desperation. He found it difficult to not recall more tranquil memories. It was nearly impossible to focus on anything other than blue eyes, blond hair, and a distinct voice. Tender moments greeted him in his deepest thoughts and the more he wished to banish them, the more they insisted on remaining. But he focused on the fondness of the past rather than the unsettling future, where he could only find fear.

At an unknown time, Nyota pulls him from his self-reflection to stand on unsteady legs. McCoy has returned with a troubled face. It takes all of his Vulcan upbringings, all of his teachings and knowledge, to try and determine what it may mean. It is not as terrible as before and he finds that comforting, if only for a brief moment.

“He’s stable,” he says. “It worked.”

Nyota grips his arm with the strength of a woman far beyond her stature. He finds the pain of it exhilarating.

McCoy leads them down hallways, up elevators, deeper into the hospital until they are on a floor barely staffed. It is quiet and somber here, with dim lights and gentleness. At the end of the hall is a single room and as they move, he can feel him.

Jim looks so small in this big room, with the windows overlooking the city and the stabilizers that reach the ceiling. He is no longer in the cryo tube but dressed in a hospital gown and his head propped up with thick white pillows. He looks comfortable as if only sleeping. Nyota is quick to run to Jim’s side, petting his hand and touching his face. McCoy advises her not to as he is still fairly radioactive. She withdraws unwillingly. He wishes to rush to Jim’s side as well, but he finds that the sight of the stabilizers working, vital signs confirmed and monitored, he is stuck in place. Jim is alive.

“The blood transfusion was a success, but,” McCoy frowns. He finds the look dissatisfying. It feels as if his heart has migrated to his feet. “It’s not so easy. He was dead for a good amount of time. Not to get into the logistics of bringing something back from the dead, but we can’t be sure we’re in the green yet.”

McCoy is watching him now and waves a hand, signaling him to enter the room. He does so with hesitant steps and is guided to the computers. “Scanners show everything’s normal, which is still blowing my mind a little. That amount of radiation would burst just about everything in you.”

He must be making a face unbecoming of his species because McCoy is looking startled and apologetic. “Sorry. What I mean is this kind of damage is irreversible, but whatever crazy nonsense is in Khan’s blood is working miracles. All major organs are functioning perfectly and the radiation is just skin deep at this point.”

“Then to what are you referring to that is not so easy?” The question sounds spiteful and impatient as it leaves him and now he feels he should have the apologetic face instead. McCoy sighs and looks at the scanner.

“It’s his brain.”

He does not follow his gaze. He refuses to look at anything that may be detrimental to his already teetering self-control. He looks to Jim instead. His chest rises and falls slowly and it is beautiful to watch. McCoy continues. “Like I said, bringing someone back from the dead isn’t exactly a cake walk. We managed to get him in the cryotube fast enough to keep his major brain function intact, but there’s something I don’t get. Normally a scanner would show any damage, but we don’t see anything. And yet he’s in a coma.”

He concentrates on the soft signals from the machines around Jim, beeping to indicate life.

“There aren’t any neural signals coming from the complex areas of the brain. Could just be shock, could be part of the healing process. We didn’t have enough time for formal tests, so we’re flying blind. Jim’s not exactly a tribble.”

He resents how McCoy can speak so carelessly. “I know he is not a tribble.”

McCoy’s shoulders fall and he grumbles. “Yeah, I know you know. Point is, he’s healthy on the outside, but we’ll just have to wait and see about the rest.”

He feels the world is no longer crashing around him. The feeling of hope humans always cling to; he had never felt a need for it, but now it is the only thing holding him down. Nyota touches him gently again, this time as a squeeze to his wrist. She does not speak again, as he already knows what she means to say. She smiles and her skin wrinkles around her wet eyes.

They stay. McCoy continues about his own hypotheses and theories, probing at scanners and hovering over Jim with tricorders for hours upon hours. He does not quite catch all of the doctor’s musings as half of them are in a dialect he is not familiar with and riddled with Terran idioms. He is barely listening regardless. Instead, he is watching the way Jim’s eyelids sometimes flutter in the most minuscule fashion, as if he is dreaming and it is not an involuntary response. He counts the seconds between each heavy breath. And he continues to do so until the sun begins to wane behind the city and Nyota is nodding off beside him. McCoy stretches and he hears the pop of cartilage followed by a sigh of relief.

“I’d recommend going home to get some rest, but I’m sure you’ll refuse”

“You are correct.”

McCoy groans but by the look in his eyes, he has been defeated and will not push further. “The recliner’s in the corner, blankets in the top cabinet to the left. At least try to get some sleep.”

“Thank you, doctor. I will consider it.”

“Consider it my ass,” he grumbles under his breath as if meaning to not be heard but be heard at the same time. He is unsure if it is an underhanded order or a parody of his own language. The doctor shakes Nyota’s shoulder to wake her. She is reluctant to go but understands there is nothing more she can do here. One last touch and she leaves with the doctor.

He is alone.

He sits up straight and steeples his fingers together. Without the constant noise from McCoy and the comforting body beside him, he is both cold and uncertain. As the Terran sun finally falls, the room is dark and serene. The stabilizers glow a gentle green across Jim’s face and he finds that amusing. He ponders the idea of a green-blooded Vulcan Jim. His wild golden hair is not meant for Vulcan styles. His eyebrows are already bold enough and need not be so angular. He concludes that Jim would never have the discipline to be a Vulcan; he is far too ambitious.

The beeping is of great comfort to him. It is a consistent, strong reminder to keep himself from “brooding”, as Jim would say. The outlines of buildings are white from the Terran moon rising. He appreciates the way it shines through the window onto Jim. It drowns him and makes him look ethereal. He knows it has no healing properties, but it would be very welcome if it did.

He is content to only sit and watch. There is not much to see. Jim does not move or make any sounds. Only breathes. He goes back to counting each one. Slow, steady, healthy. He will recover. This shall pass.

\--- 

He blinks and it is morning. He looks outside as the Terran sun rises. Hours were only seconds and minutes nothing. Seven thousand two hundred and forty six breaths and counting.

“You literally haven’t moved at all.”

McCoy is giving him the hard stare he gives to Jim when he is disobeyed his orders; the stare he gives too often. He returns the look with indifference.

“I adjusted my posture several times.”

“You,” he hisses not unlike an angry animal and storms into the room to begin his tests. “What am I gonna do with you? Both of you.”

“Fulfill your obligation as our physician, I suppose.”

McCoy never did value his formal way of speaking. It is most obvious now by the way he growls and reaches into the cabinet to throw a blanket at him with considerable strength. He catches it before it strikes his face.

“If you’re going to be here the whole time, better make yourself comfortable.”

“That is thoughtful of you, doctor.”

“Sure,” he answers. He begins his ministrations and all is forgotten.

It is a busy day today; Jim has two point three visitors per hour. Nyota is the first, with armfuls of “necessities”, as she says. He is unclear on how any of it is necessary. She sets a vase of gardenia jasminoides in the window and unpacks a care package with all of Jim’s effects. It seems half of the necessities are actually for him: clean clothes, a fully charged PADD, Terran snacks that he had never formally admitted to enjoying but she somehow knew anyway. She proceeds to make him comfortable, pressuring him to move to the plush recliner in the corner. He still has a perfect view of Jim from here and for that he is grateful. He confesses his backside is also grateful for the move.

The other visitors are less smothering than Nyota. They come with gifts just as she had; flowers and trinkets and foods. The crew of the Enterprise are especially friendly. They greet him first with the typical respects; salutes and inquiries into his personal health. He finds their pleasantries distressing. They ask how he is faring and Vulcans cannot lie. He is not well. He would tell them he is in great pain and he is uncertain of how to control his emotions despite having done so his entire life, but he refrains. He responds that he is doing his best and that, at the very least, is true.

The visitors talk to Jim. He finds it extremely odd at first. They speak to him as if he is awake and can hear them. They ask how he is faring as well and they cannot possibly expect a response. They smile and pat Jim on the shoulder. They tell him he is brave and that he is the best captain in the fleet. Jim knows this and would be greatly appreciating the compliments if he could hear them. He suspects this exchange, or lack thereof, is more for the benefit of the visitors than for Jim.

“They say they can hear you,” McCoy says after they have all left and the sun slides behind the city, “People in comas.”

He finds that difficult to rationalize. He had generated the courage to look at the brain scanner and had found it entirely lacking in activity. Even as the visitors had spoken to Jim, nothing had changed.

“I mean I don’t really believe in that horseshit. But I’m not about to tell any grieving families otherwise.”

He watches Jim as he considers the idea. McCoy watches him watch Jim.

“You could try it, though. Maybe he can only hear Vulcans.”

McCoy leaves without another word.

He finds the last glow of Terran sunlight disorienting. It paints the San Francisco sky red and for a moment they may very well be on Vulcan. But the gleam of metal towers and glass windows remind him they are here and he will never be able to show Jim where he was born, show him the red sands and rich history of his people written in stone. It is gone and Jim might be as well.

He takes a deep breath. It is too soon to be thinking negatively, too late to be regretful.

When the room is dark, he feels free to do things that are considered inappropriate for a Vulcan. There is no one to see him move from his place in the corner, no one to see him drag a chair to the side of Jim’s bed, and no one to see him place his hand into Jim’s, to caress his thumb over rough calluses. The city is so far below them and the stars so far above. No one can see them here.

“Jim,” he whispers. He looks to the scanner as if it would suddenly come to life and Jim would wake up and say “Hey there, Spock”. But it does not. And Jim does not.

He can hear the city now that he is closer to the window. It is a cacophony of technology and people. And yet in their little room, it is loudly quiet.

“Jim,” he tries again as if this time will be different. “Jim, I am here.”

The scanner is silent. The beeping continues uninterrupted.

“Jim,” he says, and his thumb moves to his wrist. He is as warm as he always is. The Terran sun has been infused into him. “You are alive.”

The scanner does not change. Jim breathes.

“It is illogical to be speaking to you this way. I understand you are unable to hear me. But,” he still watches the scanner in blind hope. It is the human part of him now. “I believe it may be assisting me. I am not quite as agitated.”

Jim does not answer and that is how it continues for the rest of the night. He tells him how he is feeling, despite his abhorrence at the expulsion of personal thoughts and emotions. He knows Jim cannot hear him and he supposes that is why he allows it with such disregard.

“I cannot say I have ever been so upset as this. When she died,” he treads with himself carefully, “I grieved for so long, Jim. I had to grieve for all my people. But you are different.”

The beeping is gentle and the city starts to sleep now.

“I am confident that you would compare your situation to the death of a planet if you were awake. You would suggest your situation is much worse.”

His thumb continues in circles. He traces a scar on the inside of Jim’s palm. It is no war wound. He had received it as a child. Jim had told him he had jumped from an automobile as it plummeted off a cliff. He had not believed him at the time, but after looking into public police records, he found it to be true and found Jim to be that much more fascinating.

“No, you would not be so cruel. Though I would not deny that you are an important part of who I am, just as they were. And if I were to grieve you as I did they, I do not know who I would become.”

He feels the need to touch him further. He lifts Jim’s hand carefully and presses a kiss to the back of it. There is no sensation from Jim, no spark of consciousness in his fingertips.

“I do not want to dwell on this idea,” he tells him. “You have compromised me.”

If Jim were awake, he would smile and arch his eyebrows in a teasing fashion that had become so habitual. He imagines it and he finds himself lost in a world where it is just them. Right now, it is just them. He rests his head on Jim’s thigh and watches the Terran moon rise over his bed, metaphorically swallowing him. There is no moon on Vulcan and he feels Jim should know that.

“Shall I instead tell you about where I was born?”

Jim breathes in response. So he tells him.

\--

He wakes up to the sound of a door closing and a startled feeling booming in his chest.

“Sorry for interrupting,” McCoy says and there is a smile on his face. He is looking at him with something akin to derisiveness. It is “cheeky”, as Jim would often say.

Then he remembers where he slept last night. His fingers are still entwined with Jim’s and he is too quick to let go. Jim’s hand hits the side of the bed with a sound he finds alarming. He stands hastily and his body is not prepared. It throbs from the position he had slept in and his legs feel weak. McCoy’s smile is replaced with something more somber. “Okay, hey, calm down. Be careful.”

These words had never been directed at him before. He is always calm and always careful. He slowly sits back into the chair before he collapses. McCoy exhales loudly in frustration and begins his routine. “Damn Vulcans. You know you can show a little affection every once in a while. Maybe then you’d look like you didn’t have a stick up your ass.”

“Doctor-”

“I _know_ you don’t have a stick up your ass! You’re killing me, you hobgoblin. Go take a shower.”

“But-”

“That’s an order, commander.”

If there was one thing he could understand at that moment, it was how to follow orders. He gathers the strength to stand once his heart has slowed to a normal pace and collects what he needs. The clothes Nyota had brought him are casual. He comes to terms with the need to bathe. As inconvenient as it is, he cannot deny the satisfaction of a sonic shower after so much activity and stress. He had not slept for several days until last night. He had fallen asleep talking to Jim about the geography of Vulcan, of the climate differences between the northern and southern hemispheres. He had discussed the full history of the divergence of Vulcans and Romulans. He felt that Jim would be most interested in this portion of history. The story of the Time of Awakening is violent and exciting, both properties that Jim finds the most amusement in.

He returns clean and reorganized. McCoy is gone and in his place is an orderly in the process of undressing Jim.

The orderly looks at him and he, in turn, looks at the orderly.

“My apologies,” the orderly quickly admits and lays the hospital gown back over Jim, “I wasn’t aware he had a guest.”

He feels an illogical wave of sudden anger with this situation. But this is necessary, he reminds himself. Jim must be cleaned as well.

“No, do not apologize. Please continue.”

The orderly seems confused with his response and does not move the gown. They watch him with strangeness. “If you would kindly leave the room so I may continue, sir. For the patient’s privacy.”

This time it is a wave of embarrassment. “Yes, of course. Excuse me.”

He feels as if he is escaping, how quickly he leaves the room. For a moment he wishes the doctor were here for him to speak with. Why had he not warned the orderly? He knows this is a trick, a “prank”. Were he not above such actions, he supposes he would return the favor. Jim would be delighted with that.

He disapproves of the orderly bathing Jim, to have them see Jim as only he sees him. However, it would be inappropriate having himself perform the task instead of the orderly, as much as he would prefer to. He supposes Jim would be embarrassed as well. It is a sensual thing, bathing a lover. He would not even be able to enjoy it.

He rubs his hand over his face to rid himself of the feeling, of the blood rushing to his cheeks. There is no point in touching Jim in this way if he is the only party to derive pleasure from it. He wishes to watch the way Jim’s eyes turn glassy when he touches his abdomen, the way his smile turns soft instead of sharp. He always savored the faces Jim made in their privacy together and found them to be the most thrilling part of their engagements. He wants to feel Jim feel him.

He sits, knowing he can no longer stand. The plastic chair makes a squeaking sound against the polished floor as he falls into it. The hall is quiet. His thoughts need to be quiet as well.

That night, when everything is done with and McCoy leaves with his taunting smile, when the Terran moon crowds the window and Jim becomes starlike, he wonders if he may remember their intimacy more clearly.

He presses two fingers to Jim’s own. This is extremely intimate by Vulcan standards, but it is not quite the same. There is a buzz of electricity between them, of chemicals and neurons and stellar energy that all creatures of this universe are made of. In Jim, there is something more. It is a frenzy of emotion, of a life that has been lived strongly. Jim is a force unknown. He would normally be overwhelmed by this feeling, but now, it is cold and unresponsive. He presses their fingertips together tightly.

“You cannot feel me here, but I would be grateful if you could.”

The redness of radiation has left him and he is tawny again, but the darkness leaves him pale. He belongs in sunlight. He wonders how Jim would have fared under the Vulcan sun, hotter and heavier than what he is used to. He imagines him laughing, struggling to stand under the increased gravity, sweating as if he were afflicted by fever. The Terran moon watches uncaringly.

“I wish to kiss you, but I find that a violation of your person.”

But it is at that moment, looking to the scanner before looking back to Jim, with his hair gently moving from the air vent above his bed, that he considers something heinous.

He wonders. His fingers twitch.

They have melded before. Even before they were favorable to each other, Ambassador Spock had melded with Jim to reassure them that they belonged together, even if he had, in fact, marooned him on an empty frozen planet with dangerous inhabitants. And they had melded so often after that; in the heat of copulation, in the quiet mornings, in the uneasiness of a stressful day. Melding was nothing new to them.

Jim breathes. He wonders if he could coax Jim back to consciousness.

It is not proper, he tells himself. And yet he continues to draw closer to him, to move his hand up his arm, his shoulder, his face. He presses a finger to his temple, to his jaw, his chin. The last finger hesitates. He had never done this without permission. On Vulcan, such an act would be a true violation of a person, but he is unable to dismiss the possibility of its remedial value.

He presses down, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

This is different. 

It is not a crash of ideas and feelings as it usually is. There is no fire in his skin, no pleasant twinge in his head. Jim always fights to dominate him here, on the plane of cognizance, but this is not a battle. It is nothing and Spock is in an empty blackness.

Jim is not here. His mind meets no one.

He feels an overpowering sadness in this headspace. It is even more lonely than it is in reality, where he sits alone in his corner and waits for something, anything. It is his most morose idea, one that has been begging to escape its emotional cage for days.

There is no one here.

He bursts with anger and terror and heartsick, enough to make him truly ill. His mind is cracking into pieces and he cannot hold them together.

“Jim, I am here.”

It is an echo. His mind is faltering. It has nothing to grasp, nothing to share, nothing to devour but itself. This is not enough. The meld begins to self destruct into a painful agony of hunger and want. It desires for what it cannot have. It is swallowing its own anguish and fear to create a nightmare.

He rips away from Jim with a scream he is nearly unable to stop. His mouth opens in a gasp that fills his lungs too full and his eyes burn. It is an unbearable feeling inside him now. It is an idea that has attached itself to his heart and refuses to remove itself. Tears cloud his vision and he squeezes Jim’s hand enough to hurt, were he able to feel.

He was a fool to think it would be anything but a disaster.

And yet, as the blurriness and pain leave him, he is overwhelmed again.

The scanner flickers.

\---

McCoy is staring, waiting for something to happen.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

McCoy continues to stare. The scanner is quiet.

“I mean, I shouldn’t doubt you. You’re incapable of lying.”

He nods and rubs his thumb into the meat of Jim’s palm. McCoy touches the screen to find the records.

“Twenty-one thirty-two,” he tells him. McCoy scoffs but inputs the time regardless.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

He finds those words appealing. McCoy is typing, clicking, opening documents. The images on the scanner from last night are not so impressive, he thinks. It is so infinitesimal of a change that it may very well be a mistake.

“The amygdala, it looks like,” McCoy tells him. “The quirky little button that tells you to be scared.”

His fingers stall their motions. He is hoping that his episode did not make Jim afraid. He is suddenly angry with himself for violating Jim’s privacy for his own peace of mind, of which he did not even gain.

“Don’t go giving me that look, now. I wasn’t finished.”

He was unaware he was giving the doctor a “look”. He sits up straight in his chair beside Jim and draws away. He feels cold. McCoy is looking back and forth between screens and tests. “The human brain is stupidly complicated. The amygdala processes memories with strong emotional events, not just fear. Like watching fireworks or driving a fast car. Can’t say anything without you jumping to conclusions, can I? That’s very un-Vulcan of you.”

He does not comment. It is true. Jim has made him brash.

“Not sure what your methods are, but I’m going to guess Vulcan voodoo. It’s a good sign; this part of the brain is integral. At least we know he won’t have amnesia. Or alternatively, if he wakes up, he’ll be able to remember everything going forward.”

The “if” makes his stomach turn. McCoy appears to not have noticed his mistake.

“I don’t suppose you can do it again.”

He condemns the thought of it. He concludes the reaction to be either fear from the breach in trust, or the meld pains him as it did himself. The options make him unwell.

“It may have been against his wishes.”

McCoy straightens up and surveys him. “Spock, if you’re referring to your gross little mind hanky panky, Jim loves it.”

He is unsure of how to respond to that. His mouth opens and closes to try and process it. McCoy rolls his eyes.

“He brags about it all the damn time. ‘Spock fucked my brain’ and ‘we can have sex in public anytime, it’s all in our heads’. I honestly hate it. If that’s what you did, then this tells me that he can feel you.”

He turns to watch Jim breathe. He is embarrassed that Jim would speak of their relationship so flippantly. However, he is also thoroughly charmed.

“Then yes, I can perform the meld again.”

McCoy gives him a disgusted sneer. “It doesn’t involve sex, does it? I’m not ready to see that.”

“No,” he answers tersely. “It is a simple touch to the face. I enter his mind and we-”

“Alright, I don’t want to hear the details from you too. Just get in there and say hello or something. No sex.”

He is sure that if Jim were not so friendly with McCoy, he would have him demoted. His bedside manner is entirely unprofessional. He wills a distasteful glance at the doctor but does as he is told. His fingers adjust into the position and he lets himself in.

It is no different from the last time. He is empty darkness with nothing to meet him. But he takes a deep breath and calms himself so his mind does not become so distraught. There is nothing for him to reach for but he makes an attempt. Jim is in here somewhere, hiding in the hollows.

“Jim.” There is no answer. The meld is humming with tension, ready to split apart. It cannot bear the weight of an unresponsive party. “Jim, can you hear me?”

He does not receive an answer. Black ink splashes over the colors of his desires and he feels the hope leaving him comparable to a river drying up. He does not want to be alone with his own thoughts. He spent too much of his childhood this way and he is tired of it. He wishes to share. He wishes for Jim. He wants to hear him and feel him and breathe him and there’s nothing here. Nothing. He crumbles.

The air rushes back into him as he pulls away, sweeping him onto his feet. He feels half-drowned, half-destroyed. McCoy is busy recording the changes on the scanner.

“This looks great. Even better than the first.”

He hides his face in his trembling hands, wiping at the sweat and tears before McCoy can speak of it.

“The response is spreading to the rest of the limbic system. Not much, but it’s a little bigger. Neural functions are intact.”

He wonders if he can continue to perform the meld in his current mental state. In his youth, his malevolent peers had found pleasure in informing him of his fragile human mind. He had made it a lifelong goal to prove himself otherwise. But now he is closer to instability than he was the night before and self-deprecation is becoming more prevalent. He surmises that he is not as strong as he had previously thought. His resolve is being torn away piece by piece and he is helpless to stop it. The situation appears to be dire, unconquerable.

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” he answers too quickly, “There is nothing to remark.”

It is clear that McCoy does not believe him. He had not lied; he had only omitted the complete answer.

\---

It is the night after, when the Terran moon greets them yet again, that he begins to feel drained at the sight of it. Jim is peaceful and the city is not. He is glowing otherworldly and he cannot find the energy to be mystified.

“You do not meet me there. I fear you cannot find me.”

He wishes for Jim to explain himself as if he is somehow guilty. He feels tightness everywhere within him.

“I am afraid you find me weak. I am uncertain how long I can continue without losing myself.”

It is desperation, which has become so commonplace to him now, that drives him to meld with Jim in the dark of the night and the light of the Terran moon. It is cold and biting. Emptiness fills him.

“Jim,” he says, but it is not him speaking. It is a child’s voice, afraid and emotional. No, it is him. His younger self appears through the bursts of color and thoughts. It is one of the many days he returns from his lessons with cuts and bruises and tears. His father advises him to be detached; his mother advises him to be kind. He cries out, alone in his room. “Jim.”

A terrifying frenzy of emotions overwhelms him. It is pure, unbridled loss; of his people, of the person he had cherished his entire life, of finding a person who he could confide in and losing them as well. It is searing anguish that delves into the core of his heart despite it all fabricating in his mind. It is too intense, too great for one being to contain. Torture transcends. He is lost. 

This feeling is not his own.

He is suddenly aware that he has fallen from his chair. He lays on the cold floor and tries to recall how his body functions. Breathe. Think. Breathe.

His face is wet and his flesh tingles. He quickly rights himself and views the scanner. It is an explosion of activity before it is all suddenly gone, veins of color disappearing into nothing.

A tear rolls down Jim’s warm face.

\---

He has resigned himself to the corner.

McCoy is looking at the scans from the night before. He had not been so helpful to tell him the exact time of the incident. He withholds this information in the illogical likelihood that the doctor will not find them, but he does. He does not want anyone to see. He does not want to remember. 

McCoy is giving him cautious glances from across the room. The scans displayed on the screens are driving him mad. He wishes to destroy them, but it will not undo what he has done.

“Mind telling me what all this is?”

He rests his elbow on the arm of the recliner and presses his chin to the palm of his hand. His fingers curl up to touch his lips as if to physically silence himself. He cannot and will not answer. He turns his attention to counting all of the windows of the high-rises outside.

McCoy does not press him. 

Four thousand six hundred and eighty-three windows.

\---

“Eat.”

He finds himself unable to look at Nyota as she speaks to him. He had long since counted all the windows, trees, and stationary objects. He then counted the people in the streets, in shuttles, trains, cars. He considered their senses of fashion, their choices in partners, their behaviors. After he grew tired of that, he counted and cataloged the types of clouds as they passed. Now he is counting how many vehicles pass the Golden Gate Bridge per minute and calculating the average. He is determining the ratio of tourist buses to cargo vessels.

“You have to eat something, Spock.”

He does not, actually. He is fully capable of functioning without nourishment for several more days without adverse effects. Nyota shifts before him, but he cannot be torn from his research.

“He won’t listen,” McCoy interjects nearby. “He hasn’t said a word since yesterday. I wouldn’t push too hard.”

Nyota is wise to listen, but it is obvious she is upset. She storms from the room. McCoy does not say anything and he returns the favor.

Two to one.

\---

The PADD is dangerous. He had busied himself by calculating San Francisco’s daily occurrences; it is difficult to find something to dwell on for too long. But he is growing bored and boredom leads to personal thoughts. The PADD provides him with endless information, but he may happen upon a topic that could pull him apart in an instant. He must take the risk or he will inevitably fail.

He decides now is the best time to better familiarize himself with the operations manual of an Andorian excavator. He will be proficient in the subject of underground architecture and geothermal energy by the end of the day.

\--

By the following day, he has read through the entire history of gambling, including a novel on how to cheat at blackjack. He could never put into action his new found skill, but at least he knows how. He has beaten the artificial intelligence of the electronic dealer one hundred and twelve times. McCoy finds his interest in the subject amusing and he offers to play a game or two with him. He seems surprised when he loses every time. 

The theory of luck keeps his mind busy.

\---

By the following day, he is practicing Talaxian. It is too guttural and his pronunciation is lacking. He finds it difficult to improve with the way McCoy keeps laughing at him under his breath. He forfeits this new education to refine his Romulan instead, to which he is more confident in his proficiency.

Nyota returns. Her anger has passed and she is apologetic. He too is compelled to apologize. She unwraps his bandages and holds a conversation with him in Romulan. He eats for the first time and it brings him no gratification.

\---

Sulu and Chekov visit Jim again on a dreary Tuesday. They come bearing bottles of thick golden whiskey. He scrambles to attention when they arrive; he had not bathed or dressed to receive visitors. They do not find his appearance troubling, but he would be a fool to not notice the sad smiles they offer him. They chat with Jim and McCoy and keep their distance from him. He suspects McCoy had previously warned them of his current disposition.

He stays in his woeful corner and does not think of it.

\---

By the following day, the flowers are starting to wilt.

\---

When his PADD finally runs out of energy and San Francisco is overcome with rain, he takes to watching McCoy.

His face is as sullen as it typically is and his eyes are trained into his work. He taps a pen on the desk as he reads through pages of research. He has been running tests on Khan’s blood all the days he has been “sulking”, as he says, and it has clearly taken a toll. He wonders if McCoy has been able to sleep soundly since the incident. He scratches at his hair and notices he recently received a haircut.

“Doctor.”

McCoy seems startled despite his quiet approach. The pen stops tapping. He expects McCoy’s sarcastic smirk and for him to ask what took him so long to speak, but he offers nothing but a frown and tiredness.

“Commander.”

That response leaves him lacking in optimism. He readies himself. “I suspect I should not inquire into Jim’s condition.”

The pen lays on the desk. McCoy exhales strongly through his nose. “I wouldn’t know what to tell you.”

He allows heaviness to settle in him. “Then tell me what you can.”

Hesitance is obvious in McCoy’s face. His eyebrows rise and his shoulders fall. “Well, we were showing some real progress with your little mind game. You’ve kinda backtracked on that.”

He does not respond.

“But we haven’t had any progress since. All of the tests are inconclusive. Tribbles and Petri dishes are having a great time, but I’m not about to start clinical trials.”

McCoy spins his chair to face him completely, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and breathes deeply again. He is exhibiting sincerely.

“Look,” is spoken so quietly he can barely hear it. “I know he’s in there somewhere and you keep trying to pull him out. Nothing I’ve done has worked and you’re the only thing that has.”

His fists clench in his lap. McCoy cannot seem to make eye contact with him now.

“I don’t know what the matter is and I’m not about to ask. I doubt you’d tell me anyway, but I just need to let you know where we stand. Things aren’t looking good.”

He feels broken open for all the world to see. He holds his head high to hide the fact. As predicted, he does not speak of the situation at hand. He offers nothing and McCoy offers condolences.

That night, the Terran moon wanes. It had been losing its luster for days and it is casting fewer shadows around them. The rain had made the city slick and earthy. He can smell the petrichor through the glass and he cannot look away from Jim.

It has only been two weeks. Two weeks in the grand scheme of the universe is so infinitesimal. It is nothing, just as insignificant as the hours and days. And yet it was an eternity, watching and waiting with no advancements, no recompense. At what point is it too much?

He presses his fingers to his mouth. He would say he could wait an eternity. That would be the most romantic response. If Jim were to hear it, he would reciprocate with a smile that laughs at him. “Sappy”, he would call him. “Lovestruck”.

But that is not the correct response.

There is no definitive time range to reference. There are too many factors to consider. What if he were to wake up tomorrow? Eight months from now? Four years? At what point does revival become impossible?

At what point does one give up?

The clouds block the rays of moonlight and the room becomes black. The green of scanners is no longer gentle but an eerie shade that feels unwelcome. Jim’s heart rate jumps in time to the gentle beeps. He sleeps more calmly then he ever has before, if this could be considered sleep. He had never been adept in the task of sleeping. He would wake halfway through his sleep cycle in a stupor of sweat and accelerated breathing. He could not sleep after such fits and would take leisurely runs along deck C until he grew tired again. He found himself joining Jim in this activity. By accompanying him, Jim would run thirty-eight point six percent less on average. He had found that Jim slept most easily with arms around his waist and breathing against his neck. Once in position, Jim felt safe enough to sleep without interruption. When he woke of his own volition, Jim showed his gratitude with feathery touches and tender words. They would not leave their bed quickly.

He is not ready to let go.

His heart burns as he removes himself from his lonely corner and moves to Jim’s side. Desperation churns within his core at the idea of never being able to share such moments again. He had developed such regard for them; he cannot imagine continuing without. They are too much a part of him. His teeth press together as if to withhold sorrowful sounds.

His hands find Jim’s face and he is powerless to stop himself. He is weak. He is irrational. Grief seizes his being in a way he has never felt. Jim’s cheeks are soft against his fingertips and he tilts his head into his grasp. He wants him to open those intoxicatingly blue eyes, akin to an oasis in the sand or the hottest part of a flame. He wants him to smile with those chapped lips and speak, to tell him he is being a fool and he need not worry. As much as he wishes, he cannot make it so.

His fingers move into position. He feels a miserable sound escape him. He is beyond help. There is nothing that can calm him. He presses.

The blackness envelopes him as if he were dropped into the sea. Colors and sounds that are familiar and yet unfathomable find the weakest parts of him. Misery becomes all he knows.

“Jim,” he says and the soundwaves crunch and fizzle into sharp lines. His memories find him again. His mother holds him in her arms, smiling at his father in the same way Jim smiles. She is so stunning this way, glowing in the Vulcan sun. His father is trying not to smile and failing. Everything crashes.

“Jim,” he calls out and it is an explosion of anger and fear and weakness. It burns and tears and rips into him as if he were nothing but paper. His mother embraces him. She kisses his troubles away. He is falling and he does not know when he will hit the bottom.

He feels it breaking, coming apart at the corners. He could walk upon the shards of things he had felt but never expressed. It is a path to worlds and things he had never recognized. Flashes of daydreams and nightmares prickle at his skin and fill him with distress. Jim’s hands press to the glass, begging for comfort that he cannot provide. He is helpless, just as he had been on his homeworld as it shattered and his mother disappeared in a single violent second.

“Jim,” he cries and it is pure wretchedness. His mind chips and cracks. He cannot go further, cannot find what he seeks. He is pulling away and losing himself to annihilation.

“Jim!”

A boy with wild golden hair and a dirty face of bruises looks at him. He wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes are fierce and bitter. 

Blue eyes.

Sensation slams into him and he nearly vomits. He leans away from the bed and bows his head to let saliva drip from his mouth to the floor. He had not eaten since Nyota had insisted so nothing leaves him. He cannot breathe, cannot see. He is blinded with white-hot oblivion. There is an ache between each rib, broken glass in his lungs. He struggles to return to reality.

He stumbles back to his corner and falls into the recliner. There is no security here, no safety. It is only a place for him to admit defeat.

This is not who he is, who he was raised to be, who he desires to be. His lack of focus is unbecoming. The memories flood him and he cannot quell the onslaught: Jim laughing at his attempts at humor; Jim's refusal to withdraw from a fight, even if he is wrong and he is only quarreling for the sake of it; Jim's admiration whispered into his ear to elicit a response. He is a ruined man. 

With his face hidden in his hands, he finds he can no longer remain as he is. It comes in a torrent, crushing and bearing down with the pressure of nothing he has ever known. A planet worth of shame weighs upon him. 

He grimaces, feeling the tight pull of muscles so infrequently used, and lets out a sob of insurmountable agony.

He cries until the Terran moon falls away.

\---

“Spock!”

He wakes to a harried doctor full of chaotic energy staring him down. He is too startled to react as he should, too drained from his ordeal the night before. He claws at the recliner beneath him and tenses his body for an unknown impact. His eyes are dry and sore; he hopes McCoy does not notice the condition of his face or see through his fragility.

“Doctor?”

“Get up, you Vulcan bastard!”

He is having difficulty determining why the doctor is so manic. Maybe he had gone into a violent rage last night and destroyed the room. Or maybe he had vomited after all. Or, as his thoughts come back to him in wakefulness, Jim has died in the night. 

The idea produces a full body flinch. The doctor turns to point. 

“Look!”

So he does. 

The scanner is alive, bursting with lights up and down seams of grey matter. The images move in clean, crisp revolutions. It's electricity surging along veins and blood and flesh. It's green and white proof of feelings, of life. _Jim._

He bolts from his seat and stumbles to Jim's side, watching the scanner bloom over and over. It is a cascade of motion, shifts of activity similar to an ocean wave. It is strong and steadfast

“It's all there. No damage,” McCoy confirms behind him, and if he were not so captivated, he may be so inclined to embrace him. “Just needed a jumpstart.”

Last night had been an emotional pitfall he could not escape and now he finds himself in a furor of relief incomparable to anything he had ever experienced. He is bewildered. He grasps Jim’s hand tightly and determines that his pulse is more vigorous, if only just. 

“When will he wake?”

“Could be anytime, at this point.” McCoy looks as if he too is drowsy with relief. “Might wanna make yourself presentable.”

He wants to never leave his place beside Jim. But he is haggard and he can feel saline dried to his face in thin white lines. It would be distasteful for that to be the first thing he sees. He tries to gain composure upon standing and making his way to the bathroom. He is grateful that sonic showers are so expeditious; It is only a few apprehensive moments away from Jim. He ransacks the very neat pile of clothes Nyota had brought for him for something, anything, that will be suitable for such an occasion as this. He is impressed to find his Starfleet Academy uniform. He dresses as quickly as he is able.

He is so relieved, he may be delusional. It is an assault of warmth and exhilaration. All negativity has completely disengaged from him. McCoy gives him a pompous look. “Starfleet finery? It’s a reunion, not a funeral.”

He would remark on the doctor’s stark white uniform, perfectly creased and properly formal, but he is far too elated. “Personal appearance is important in making favorable impressions.”

McCoy makes a doubtful sound, but there is clearly only joy behind his smile.

McCoy straightens his desk and he assists in cleaning the room as well if only to placate the buzzing excitement within him. It would be inappropriate for Jim to be surrounded by chaos when he wakes. His nest of solitude and grief is returned to its previously uninteresting state. Dead flowers are discarded and gifts centralized to a single table.

Then he sits and he waits.

It is illogical to assume Jim will wake so quickly. Such things cannot be predicted. It may be hours, it may be days. However, he finds that he can barely contain the rapture in his heart. He stays absolutely still for a few hours, but at some point, he becomes too anxious and his fingers tap and his shoulders twitch of their own accord. It seeps from him, this unquenchable hysteria, and he barely realizes it. He had waited two weeks and yet these moments feel even longer.

And then it happens.

The first sign of change is the increase in respiratory rate. The increase in heart rate follows soon after and the rapid beeping becomes loud in his ears. He stands on unsteady legs and watches.

It is a gentle pulse behind closed eyelids. It is a lethargic turn of the head, rolling sandy hair against a plump pillow. It is pale eyelashes quivering and raising. Confused blue eyes find the ceiling, followed by the scanners, the stabilizers, the bed. And then they find McCoy.

They are speaking words he cannot hear. They are sounds and movements he cannot discern. He can only see the strong breaths in Jim’s chest, the furrowing of his brows as he finally discovers where he is. McCoy must be explaining the situation. He runs a tricorder over him. There is nothing of alarm. Jim is alive. He is awake.

He watches so closely, the way he blinks, the way his neck tenses. It must be sore from bedrest. He looks exhausted, eyes slow to take in his surroundings. His lips are dry and tight, his gradual understanding of how he came to be here making them even tighter. But McCoy says something and suddenly Jim sighs deeply, releasing the anxiety that he had been withholding since the events that lead them here. He no longer needs to fear or worry. He is safe here. He has fulfilled his duties and more. He has beaten death itself.

McCoy moves away from Jim and that is when the world aligns. He steps forward, making himself known, and blue eyes find him instantly. Time is no longer relevant. Two weeks was nothing and eternity would have been nothing as well. He would wait for all of it to have those eyes look at him like that. They blink in surprise and his face shifts and changes so clearly. It is the spread of his lips, the blooming of joy in his eyes, the hitch in his breath. Jim looks up at him as if he were all the stars in existence and of those yet to be born. His eyes do not betray that he is devoid of energy, that he is physically unsound. The flutter of his eyelids is slow, as if in a dreamlike trance, but the blue underneath is alive and glowing with the might of a thousand Terran suns. They burn for him and only him; this he knows. They are speaking to him in a voice only he can understand. Those eyes are what his memories are made of. They burst through him like a supernova and he is lost.

Jim smiles at him.

He smiles back.


End file.
